This woman. Her face was serious. Her hands solid and cold as metal. She moved the ultrasound wand over the inside of Anouk’s arm with one quick flourish, and tied the tourniquet tightly so that Anouk could feel her pulse blipping against the rubber sash. The nurse cleaned the area with an antiseptic-wet cotton swab and laid a sterile drape over Anouk’s arm. She was a marvel with the local anaesthetic; Anouk scarcely felt the needle going in. While they waited for the numbing, the nurse unwrapped the blue paper from the instruments, and, when she was finished doing that, she told Anouk about the risks and side-effects, which Anouk already knew by heart. Infection, clots, bleeding and bruising. She asked if Anouk had any questions. No questions, but Anouk had to sit up so she could cough, and spit into a cup. The nurse waited patiently until she finished and was lying still again.

Anouk stared at the wall, aware of the proximity of the nurse. Could smell her soap, the detergent in her clothes. Could hear her breathing deeply through her nose. No pain, only pressure. There was a rectangle of slightly paler paint on the wall where some poster or frame once hung. Again, the plastic covering of the ultrasound wand circling the inside of her arm.

‘Huh,’ said the nurse. The room filled with a pause.

‘What?’

‘Your veins are being tricky.’

‘They’re tired.’

The veins always got the blame. More pressure, another hole pierced in her flesh. It wasn’t painful, only grating. Like the whine of a mosquito in the ear. There were many steps to the process: the insertion of a thick needle, a guide wire through the needle, and then the catheter pushed along the guide wire. Once that was done, the needle and guide wire were removed and the catheter flushed with saline and capped. Five or ten minutes staring at the wall, and finally Anouk looked at what the nurse was doing. Blooms of dark blood decorated the green drape and still no needle in her arm.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the nurse. ‘Luck is not with me today.’

So at least Anouk’s veins were not to be blamed. Now it was fortune.

Being on her back made the lungs worse, so Anouk had to sit up again and cough. This time, the fit lasted for several minutes. And then the whole procedure had to be repeated from the beginning because her arm was no longer sterile, nor was the drape or anything else. The nurse was beginning to crack.

Success took an hour. The anaesthesia was fading and Anouk could feel the bruises of the failed attempts at threading her vein. She was exhausted and this wasn’t over. There would be another room, another specialist. An antibiotics test and instructions on how and when to administer, doing it herself, at home. At home. That’s why all of this was worth it.

And days later, antibiotics still pumped through Anouk’s body, expedited by the large vein next to her heart into which the catheter delivered the drugs. She was itchy, all over; a bleeding, gritty rash had developed in her armpit. She was propped up on the couch with a blanket in her mother’s living room and staring at the ugly, broken branch of deer antler Nora kept on the mantelpiece. Computer on her lap, another attempt at the artisan and his cheese. He worked out of a warehouse on Ontario Street, a few blocks west of Parliament. The area had for many years been derelict. This, at least, was interesting. Empty warehouses and small, defunct factory spaces being taken over and converted into studios. There was a story to this part of the city. Toronto a hundred years ago. Steam issuing from factory stacks and maybe an organ-grinder on the corner with a monkey. A boy selling newspapers plastered with gossip. Horses and whalebone corsets and cholera. Here now. The snap of a story just visible, a silver belly-flash from a fish deep down. But the drugs she took, they were strong. And what was the point anyway.